by Harlan Coben
“And you don’t?”
“I like to think I loathe it.”
“But do you?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
“It was scary,” she said. “Win was scary.”
“He also saved your life.”
“Yes.”
“It’s what Win does. He’s good at it—the best I’ve ever seen. Everything with him is black and white. He has no moral ambiguities. If you cross the line, there is no reprieve, no mercy, no chance to talk your way out of it. You’re dead. Period. Those men came to harm you. Win wasn’t interested in rehabilitating them. They made their choice. The moment they entered your apartment they were doomed.”
“It sounds like the theory of massive retaliation,” she said. “You kill one of ours, we kill ten of yours.”
“Colder,” Myron said. “Win’s not interested in teaching a lesson. He sees it as extermination. They’re no more than pestering fleas to him.”
“And you agree with that?”
“Not always. But I understand it. Win’s moral code is not mine. We’ve both known that for a long time. But he’s my best friend and I’d trust him with my life.”
“Or mine,” she said.
“Right.”
“So what is your moral code?” she asked.
“It’s flexible. Let’s leave it at that.”
Jessica nodded. She lay her head back down on his chest. The warmth of her felt good against his heartbeat. “Their heads,” she said. “They just exploded like melons.”
“Win doctors the bullets to maximize impact.”
“Where did he take the bodies?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Will they be found?”
“Only if he wants them to be.”
A few minutes later Jessica’s eyes closed and her breathing grew deep. Myron watched her drift into a sound sleep. She cuddled closer to him, looking small and frail. He knew what would happen tomorrow. She’d still be in some form of shock—not a dazed shock as much as a denial. She’d go about her day as though nothing had happened, straining extra-hard for normalcy but falling just short of achieving it. Everything would be just a little different than yesterday. Nothing drastic, just the little things. Her food would taste a little different. The air would smell a little different. Colors would have an almost indiscernibly different hue.
At six in the morning, Myron got out of bed and showered. When he came back she was sitting up. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“To see Pavel Menansi.”
“This early?”
“They’ll think Aaron took care of the problem last night. I might catch them off guard.”
She pulled the covers over her. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night at dinner. About the connection to the Alexander Cross murder.”
“And?”
“Suppose you’re right. Suppose something else happened that night six years ago.”
“Like?”
She sat upright, leaning against the headboard. “Suppose Errol Swade didn’t kill Alexander Cross,” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, suppose Valerie saw what really happened to Alexander Cross. And suppose that whatever she saw pushed her already battered psyche over the edge. She had already been weakened by what Pavel Menansi did to her. But now suppose whatever she saw was the ultimate cause of her breakdown.”
Myron nodded. “Go on.”
“And now suppose years pass. Valerie gets stronger. She makes a remarkable recovery. She even wants to play tennis again. But most of all, she wants to face up to her darkest fear: the truth of what really happened that night.”
He saw where she was going with this. “She’d have to be silenced,” he said.
“Yes.”
Myron slipped a pair of pants on. Over the past few months his clothes had begun a slow migration to Jess’s loft. About a third of his wardrobe now resided here. “If you’re right,” he said, “we now have two people who want to silence Valerie: Pavel Menansi and whoever killed Alexander Cross.”
“Or someone who wants to protect those two.”
He finished dressing. Jess hated his tie and told him to change it. He complied. When he was ready to leave, Myron said, “You’ll be safe this morning, but I want to move you someplace out of town for a little while.”
“For how long?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Few days. Maybe longer. Just until I can get this situation under control.”
“I see,” she said.
“Are you going to fight me on this?”
She got out of bed and pattered across the room. She wore no clothes. Myron’s mouth went a little dry. He stared. He could stare all day. She walked with the ease of a panther. Every movement was supple and marvelous and rawly sensual. She slipped into a silk robe. “I know this is the part where I’m supposed to get all indignant and say that I’m not going to change my life,” she said. “But I’m scared. I’m also a writer who could use a few days of solitude. So I’ll go. No arguments.”
He hugged her. “You’re always a surprise,” he said.
“What?”
“Being reasonable. Who would have thought?”
“I’m trying to keep the mystery alive,” she said.
They kissed. Passionately. Her skin felt wonderfully warm.
“Why don’t you stay a little longer?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “I want to get to Pavel before Ache realizes what happened.”
“One more kiss then.”
He stepped away. “Not unless you want to pack me in ice.” He blew her a kiss and left the bedroom area. Clumps of blood were stuck to the exposed brick wall by the door. Courtesy of Fishnet Lee’s head.
Outside, Win was nowhere in sight, but Myron knew he was there. Jess would be safe until they moved her.
Pavel Menansi was staying at the Omni Park Central on Seventh Avenue, across the street from Carnegie Hall. Myron would have preferred to go in with backup, but it was better Win wasn’t there. There had been a bond between Win and Valerie—more than just the family-friend variety. Myron didn’t know what that bond was. Win cared about very few people, but for those select few he would go to any lengths. The rest of the world meant nothing to him. Somehow Valerie had entered that protective circle. Myron would have enough trouble keeping his own rage in check. If Win were here—if Win were to question Pavel about his “affair” with Valerie—it wouldn’t be a very pretty sight.
Pavel was staying in room 719. Myron checked his watch. Six-thirty. Not much activity in the lobby. The floor was being mopped. An exhausted family was checking out. Three kids, all whining. The parents looked like they could use a vacation. Myron walked purposefully onto an elevator, like he belonged. He pressed the button for the seventh floor.
The corridor was empty. When Myron reached the door to Pavel’s room, he knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried once again. Nothing. He was about to go downstairs and try the house phone when a sound made him stop. He listened again. The sound was barely perceptible. He pressed his ear against the door.
“Hello?” he called out.
Crying. Faint. Growing stronger. The cries of a little girl.
Myron pounded the door this time. The crying picked up a little steam now, becoming more a sob. “Are you okay?” Myron asked. More crying, but still no words. A minute or so more of this and Myron began to look for the familiar sight of the maid cart and her passkey. But it was six-thirty in the morning. The maid wasn’t on her run yet.
Picking locks was not Myron’s forte. Win was a lot better at it. Plus he didn’t have the tools. Another cry from the room. “Open the door,” he shouted. The only answer was more cries.
To hell with it, he thought.
Leading with his shoulder, Myron pile-drove his body into the door. It stung him pretty good, but the lock gave way. The cries were still muffled, but for a moment Myron forgot about them. Spraw
led across the bed was Pavel Menansi. His eyes were wide open but unseeing. His mouth was frozen in a surprised oval. Dried, dark blood was caked on his chest where the bullet had entered.
He was naked.
Myron stared for a few moments before the renewed cries snapped him out of it. He turned to his right. The sound emanated from behind the bathroom door. Myron moved toward it. There was a plastic Feron’s bag on the floor. The same kind they used at the U.S. Open. The same kind they found at Val’s murder.
The bag had a bullet hole in it.
In front of the bathroom door, jammed under the knob, was a chair. Myron kicked it out of the way and opened the door. A young girl was sitting on the tile, her knees pulled up to her chest. She was huddled in a corner against the toilet. Myron recognized her right away. It was Janet Koffman, Pavel’s newest protégée. Fourteen years old.
She too was naked.
Janet looked up at him. Her eyes were large and red and puffy. Her lower lip quivered. “We were just talking tennis,” she said in a dead voice. “He’s my coach. We were just talking about a match. That’s all.”
Myron nodded. Janet started to cry again. He bent down and wrapped a towel around her. He reached out, but she shrank away.
“It’s okay now,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “You’re going to be okay.”
37
Janet Koffman had stopped crying. She was sitting on the loveseat by the window. Her back was to the bed and hence Pavel’s corpse. From what Myron could get out of her she had been in the bathroom when someone locked her in with the chair and killed Pavel. She hadn’t seen a thing. She was still sticking to her other story too: she and her coach had been talking tennis. Myron chose not to probe into the small details—like why, for example, they would have this particular discussion in the nude.
He had called the police. They’d be here any minute now. The question was, what should he do with Janet? On the one hand, he wanted to protect her from all of this; on the other, he knew she had to deal with what she had been through, that she couldn’t just pretend nothing had happened to her. So what should Myron do—tamper with a police investigation or expose her to the brutish ways of the cops and worse, the press? What message of shame would hiding the truth send her? Then again, what would happen to this young girl if the story hit the airwaves?
Myron didn’t have a clue.
“He was a good coach,” Janet said softly.
“You did nothing wrong,” Myron said, again realizing how lame he sounded. “Whatever else happens, remember that. You did absolutely nothing wrong.”
She nodded slowly, but Myron wasn’t sure if she’d even heard him.
Ten minutes later the police arrived, led by Dimonte. Rolly looked like something the proverbial cat had dragged in. He was unshaven. His shirt was untucked and buttoned wrong. His hair was all over the place. He had sleep-buggers in both eyes. Still, the boots were nicely polished. He charged up to Myron. “Returning to the scene of the crime, asshole?”
“Yeah,” Myron said, “that’s it.”
The press rounded the corner. Flashbulbs started strobing. “Keep those assholes downstairs!” Dimonte hollered. Some uniformed cops pushed them back. “Downstairs, I said! No one on this floor.”
Dimonte turned back to Myron. Krinsky came in and stood next to him. His pad was out.
“Hey, Krinsky,” Myron said.
Krinsky nodded.
“So what the hell happened?” Dimonte demanded.
“I came up to see him. I found him like this.”
“Stop fucking with me, asshole.”
Myron didn’t bother with a retort. Cops were all over the place. The coroner was slitting a hole in Pavel’s torso with a surgical scalpel. The liver area, Myron knew. Trying to get a liver temperature reading to find out time of death.
Dimonte spotted the Feron’s bag on the floor. “You touch this?”
Myron shook his head.
Dimonte bent down and looked at the bullet hole. “Cute,” he said.
“You going to let Roger Quincy go now?”
“Why should I?”
“You didn’t have squat on him before. Now you have less than squat.”
Dimonte shrugged. “Could just be a copycat. Or”—he snapped his fingers—“or it could be someone who wants to get Quincy off.” A smile. “Someone like you, Bolitar.”
“Yeah,” Myron said, “that’s it.”
Dimonte stepped closer. He gave Myron the tough-guy glare again. Then, as though suddenly remembering it, he quickly whipped out his toothpick and put it in his mouth. He glared again and gnawed the toothpick.
“I was wrong before,” Myron said.
“What?”
“About the toothpick being cliché. It’s actually very intimidating.”
“Keep it up, funny man.”
“It’s too early for this, Rolly.”
“Listen, asshole, I want to know what you’re doing here.”
“I told you. I came to see Pavel.”
“Why?”
“To talk about him coaching a player of mine.”
“At six-thirty in the morning?”
“I’m an early riser. It’s why they call me Mr. Sunbeam.”
“They should call you Mister Lying Sack of Shit.”
“Oooo,” Myron said. “That hurt.”
Dimonte started gnawing on the toothpick with renewed vigor. You could almost hear something churn inside his head. “So tell me, Bolitar,” he said with the beginnings of a smile, “you came to the hotel to talk business. You took the elevator up to see our victim here. You knocked on the door. No one answered. Right so far?”
“Yep.”
“So then you kicked the door in, right?”
Myron said nothing.
Dimonte turned to Krinsky. “That make sense to you, Krinsky? Kicking in the door like that?”
Krinsky looked up from his pad, shook his head, looked back down.
“You always do that when no one answers a door, asshole? Kick it down?”
“I didn’t kick it. I used my shoulder.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Bolitar. You didn’t come here to talk business. And you didn’t kick down the door just because no one answered.”
The coroner tapped Dimonte on the shoulder. “Bullet to the heart. Clean shot. Death was instantaneous.”
“Time of death?” Rolly asked.
“He’s been dead six, maybe seven hours.”
Dimonte looked at his watch. “It’s seven now. That would mean he was killed between midnight and one.”
Myron turned to Krinsky. “And he didn’t even see you use his fingers.”
Krinsky almost smiled.
Dimonte tossed out another glare. “You got an alibi, Bolitar?”
“I was with a lady friend.”
“That Jessica Culver?”
“Correct.” Myron waited for Krinsky to look up. When he did, Myron said, “Her number is 555-8420.”
Krinsky wrote it down.
“All right, Bolitar, now stop busting my balls. Why did you kick down the door?”
Myron hesitated. He looked at Dimonte. Dimonte looked back and said, “Well?”
“Come with me,” Myron said in a quiet voice. He began to leave the room.
“Hey, where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“For once, Rolly, don’t be an ass. Just shut up and follow me.”
To Myron’s surprise Dimonte kept quiet. They went down the corridor in silence. Krinsky stayed at the crime scene. Myron stopped in front of a door, took out a key, and opened it. Janet Koffman was sitting on the bed. She was wearing a hotel bathrobe. If she realized they were there, she didn’t show it. Janet rocked back and forth, humming to herself.
Dimonte looked a question at Myron.
“Her name is Janet Koffman.”
“The tennis player?”
Myron nodded. “The killer locked her in the bathroom before he shot Menansi. I heard her crying wh
en I knocked on the door. That’s why I kicked it in.”
Dimonte looked at Myron. “You mean she and Menansi were …?”
Myron nodded.
“Christ, how old is she?”
“Fourteen, I think.”
Dimonte closed his eyes. “We have someone down at the precinct,” he said softly. “A doctor. She’s good with this stuff. I’ll talk to the Manhattan cop in charge about sneaking her out, see if he can keep the press away. I’ll try to keep the victim’s name out of the papers for a while.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve seen this kinda thing before, Bolitar. The girl is going to need help.”
“I know.”
“Any chance she offed him herself? Frankly I wouldn’t give a shit but …”
Myron shook his head. “She was locked in from the outside with a chair. It couldn’t have been her.”
Dimonte gave the toothpick a little chew. “Thoughtful killer,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t want the girl to see what happened. He made sure she had an alibi by locking her in with the chair. And most of all he saved her from going through any more of Menansi’s hell.” He looked at Myron. “I’d probably pin a medal on the guy if he hadn’t also killed Valerie Simpson.”
Myron said, “Me too.” It made him wonder.
38
The office was only about ten blocks away. Myron decided to walk it. Cars sat completely still on Sixth Avenue, though the lights were green and there was no visible construction. Everyone honked their horns. Like this ever does any good. A well-groomed man got out of a taxi. He wore a pin-striped suit, a gold Tag Heuer watch, and Gucci shoes. He also wore a green pinwheel hat and plastic Spock ears. New York—my kind of town.
Myron ignored the fumes and tried to think the whole thing through. The popular theory—the main theory, if you will—had gone something like this: Valerie Simpson had been abused by Pavel Menansi. Regaining her mental strength, she had decided to expose him. This exposure would have been detrimental to the financial well-being of TruPro and the Ache brothers. So they eliminated her before she could do any damage. It all added up. It all made sense.
